lighting matches just to swallow up the flame
by madworlds
Summary: Psychopathy is a state of mind. / Or, Cato and Clove deliberate over a life (or two). Slightly Clato.


_he says, 'oh, baby girl, don't get caught on my edges'_  
—- young god, halsey

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The tree the Careers have elected to wait the first night of the Arena out under is as tall and long-limbed as the ones layered in snow that Cato is familiar with back home in Two. But in one respect this tree is different: in its branches it houses a girl waiting for her death. The other Careers are setting up the camp, hands newly stained with the girl from Eight's life, but he has stopped, waiting for another movement from their captive so he can reassure himself of her presence. There is one now, a slight shift as she repositions herself, perhaps. Cato watches her, helpless there, and feels the heat of his victory, revels in it. He assumes there'll be a fight around daybreak, a last stand in some shape or form. He expects it, even; Panem named her for the fire that will not allow her, even now, to give in, and it will be a pleasure to douse it for her.

Clove calls to him from across the fire the Ones are finishing setting up, inclines her head subtly towards the trees that form a wall at her back. He raises an eyebrow, deliberately misunderstanding her intent in a way he knows will anger her, and she rolls her eyes, taking the bait. He flashes another quick glance upwards before he follows her, but he can barely make out the dark shape nestled motionless among the branches. Twelve's district partner sits at the base of the tree, a silent sentinel. Cato is not yet sure whom it is he guards, but it's not an undue concern. He is part of their alliance, technically, but the boy is next to die and knows it: when Cato all but orders him to stay on watch before moving to trace Clove's path into the trees, he receives only the sullen nod of the condemned in reply.

She leads him a little way into the forest, far enough to be out of earshot of the camp, before rounding on him angrily. "We're leaving Twelve alive?"

"Just for tonight." He shrugs. "It's not like she can go anywhere."

"So she lives because that blonde _idiot_ wants a second chance with her? Cato, this is life, damn it! You don't _get_ another shot if you fuck up the first one."

"Maybe I just want to kill her on a full night's sleep." He does, in a way, want the sun as his witness when he kills the girl on fire, but his overarching motive for the wait is that Cato knows Clove hates Glimmer, is equally aware that the older girl feeds off the enmity and riles Clove deliberately. He'd be lying if he said that was the only reason he's slept with the One girl, but, well. It makes sense to pit two of his biggest competitors against each other, he thinks.

Clove looks entirely exasperated. He holds his breath for a moment, feels the ever-present rage bottled inside him surge as it threatens to pop its cork and burst free. And perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing if it did, here and now, alone in the dark. He could catch her as she walks back to the campsite, snap her neck after he dodges the ingrained, instinctive backwards knife thrust he's watched her rehearse a thousand times, practice for a surprise attack that the unspoken agreement between district partners means she will never expect to come from him. It would be almost idiocy to let this opportunity slide.

Because they're not both going home, of course. He's been wishing for her to die first, die early so that _he_ doesn't have to kill her, and hating himself for the weakness as he hopes. Cato doesn't know whether Clove's thought about it, but he assumes so. They're trained that way. But it's not as if it matters, anyway. He's not come this far to lose.

"Fine." She throws up her hands in surrender, and the knives on her belt glint as the dim torchlight catches the steel. _"You_ can catch her again when One screws it up, then." Clove turns, ending the conversation abruptly. Her back is barely two metres away, an offering that tempts the killer lying dormant inside him, and he wonders at her confidence.

Clove's feet crunch dully in the undergrowth as she trudges away from him. His fingers itch with the urge to _end_ it, but he links them together and holds them behind his back, using himself as a living shield for her. He's been protecting Clove from himself for as long as he can remember, after all. Tonight is no different, does not have to be.

Tomorrow, they will see.

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A/N: For day two of Caesar's Palace shipping week. (Pairing was Cato/Clove.)


End file.
